


Universe

by WahlBuilder



Category: The Technomancer (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Coming Untouched, Everyone Is Alive, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 17:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18473737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Zach and Sean have all the time in the world now.





	Universe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Modlisznik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Modlisznik/gifts).



> For Mo. One more fic towards the 23 goal.

The wind is flapping against their room, but it can’t get in. This is just as well, because Zach is not sharing the sight before him with _anyone_.

And a sight Sean most certainly is. Pale like those old, old statues. With chips and cracks and lines of repairs, and even more perfect for that.

Ian showed him a book on the old Earthian art, once. It had lots of pictures, and many words, as though the Colonists tried to fit all of human history and culture into one huge tome with the thinnest leafs.

Sean is all pale skin and paler scars, though the unhealthy pallor is gone.

He is almost too good to be real. Too perfect to be touched, and the arresting line of his mouth doesn’t help matters. He is not _pretty_ — there is no softness about his looks (there is a softness about his expression, sometimes: when he looks at Connor talking to children, when he listens to Ian talking about relics, when Melvin grumbles a joke, when—).

He is fine like a dagger — or like a technomantic staff: deadly, precise, with its markings unique.

Zach should be appaled at comparing Sean to a weapon — a thing — but a technomantic staff is, in a way, alive, a part of its owner and—

“Zachariah.”

A hand touches his knee gently, and he luxuriates in the taste of Sean’s field, enveloping and warm. Then smiles apologetically. “Sorry. Mind wanders. You are…”

Gorgeous. Fragile in a way that Zach can’t put into words and wouldn’t even try because Sean would be dismayed that someone sees him as that, would deny everything.

And Zach would deny that his fingers tremble a little from the understanding that this is allowed. He can have this, _they_ can have this. Have each other, and not look over their shoulders.

Sitting astride Sean is the most comfortable place in the world and he doesn’t have to worry that his weight might be bad, Sean is so strong, he can—

Zach knows a good way to shut his thoughts, and so he leans down, curling to Sean, and kisses him.

Sean’s hand caresses the back of his head, and he shivers, the touch intense on his newly shaved skin. Sean parts his lips under Zach’s kiss, and Zach gladly accepts the invitation, stroking Sean’s face with the tips of his fingers.

His head swims — from the touch, the taste of Sean (sweet tea and metallic tang), the stroke of long fingers on the back of his head, Sean’s wonderful, wounded body under him…

“Master. Master.”

“You wouldn’t get less than what you were promised,” Sean says quietly, and his voice is gentle, like those times when Zach overworked himself during sparring, like those times when he—

“Sean.” He tries to control himself, to slow down. They can have this, they have all the time in the world — but his mind is filled with flashes of fear: all the images of Sean’s beautiful body pinned down by shrapnel or bullets, obliterated in a blast, out _there_ , away — or his own body, his own breath fading away without a last goodbye. What if they—

“Shh, I’m here, I’m alive, you are alive.”

“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes.”

He kisses the corner of Sean’s mouth (curling in a smile), the small scars from a removed piercing, up his cheek (clean-shaved), to the sharp cheekbone, to the corner of the eye where crow’s feet are a proof of joy, to the white brow that arches so beautifully. To the scars from the implants, down the side of Sean’s face (skin almost translucent), to his ear, and draws the soft earlobe into his mouth, and Sean’s breath hitching is the best reward, Sean’s nails scraping the back of Zach’s neck a proof that they are together in this.

In their need.

He gives a gentle tug to the earlobe with his teeth, emboldened by Sean’s reaction — then moves to Sean’s lips again. A severe line, they are now parted, wet, bright — from him, from this, from their kisses.

This is only for him.

This is only between them.

“Want to kiss you,” he confesses — it slips out so easily in the private space between them — not because they need to hide, but because this is only _theirs_. “Want to kiss every inch of you, caress every—” He closes his eyes tight.

“My boy.”

Sean sounds… breathless, and Zach commits this to memory, too, before he remembers he doesn’t have to, he is not a thief anymore, sneaking in the shadows, snatching scraps. He wouldn’t lose it.

(But what if they—)

“My boy.”

Sean’s hand sliding up his arm, the one bearing Zach’s weight above Sean, a trail of goosebumps following it. Another hand — round his neck, up the side of his throat (on the _right_ side, where he is ugly, where he is—), leaving a tingling feeling in its wake — a mapping, an exploration even though, surely, Sean knows all of his scars (especially _those_ ). Along his jaw, Shadow, he hasn’t shaved—

“Shh.”

Sean’s fingers are warm, and they slide over his lips, and he flicks out his tongue because he wants to…

Another hitch in Sean’s breath — and he wants to draw these fingers into his mouth, but later. They _can_ have later.

He kisses Sean’s fingers instead and chances to open his eyes, and Sean’s gaze is on him. His eyes are so on Zach he feels like he’s become the center of the whole fucking universe.

(It is Sean. Sean is his universe, Sean is—)

He shifts his balance back and takes Sean’s hand in both his (trembling). He’s thought about Sean’s hands often, in various contexts. Sometimes the thought of holding them was enough of an ache.

There is a faint webbing of scars, and a faint charge, and that metal scent, and he kisses — each finger up and down, each pad, and the hillocks on the palm, and the heel; he turns it, looking into Sean’s eyes, so blue in the light of their lone lamp, and so entirely focused on him. And he kisses each knuckle in turn, flicks his tongue over the cool plates of nails, kisses the thin lines of scars, the dry skin covering the back of Sean’s hand — and nips at the jutting bone at the wrist.

Sean’s blue glazes over.

It is good to know they are together in this.

“Oh, you rogue,” Sean purrs, it rolls so easily.

“I am, Master.” He doesn’t cast his gaze down, doesn’t turn away (like before, when he hoped his staring wouldn’t be noticeable, and realized with defeat that it was, because he was blushing).

“Kiss me.”

He smiles. “Yes, Master.”

He bends down — again, again, ready to drink Sean’s breath off his lips until the stars fall down upon them.

He can’t get enough.

But Sean will always _be_ enough.

Zach scatters his kisses without reservation, down Sean’s chin, under his jaw, down his throat, pressing briefly to the pulse beating so fast into his mouth. Inhales Sean’s scent (bitter and zesty). Down the tendons, and to the fragility of the collar bones (he licks into the dip between, and Sean arches up).

He kisses along the ragged scar on Sean’s left pectoral (“A bar fight, my boy, just ask Melvin.”), to the nipple torn by the same scar, the beautiful, _living_ asymmetry of Sean’s body emphasized even further; licks over that nipple (another wave passes through Sean). Down Sean’s sternum, pale and beautiful, planes of muscles under his mouth, his hands skimming down the sides.

Sean’s breathing is quiet and quick, one hands flexing on Zach’s shoulder, another in the blanket underneath them.

 _I won’t give any less than what I promised_ , Zach wants to say — but proves it with actions instead. Traces another scar with the flat of his tongue, looking up. Meeting Sean’s gaze, all on him.

He reaches Sean’s navel and the trail of light hairs running down, and goes to the right, following the line of muscles. He brings his fingers even lower, rubs the tent in Sean’s pants with a knuckle — and Sean arches up with a gasp louder than before, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Zach does it again, watching, drinking Sean in. His Master, his mentor, _his_.

Then he ducks down to scrape a bit of skin over the waistband with his teeth. Sean laughs voicelessly.

It is the most beautiful sound.

He opens the zipper and slides his hand and — Sean is so hot and hard, and Zach can’t suppress a shudder.

He slides even lower down Sean’s beautiful body, pulling the pants and the boxers off, peeling the layers away. More scars — he kisses all he can find, hastier now, nips the hipbone then mouths at it, cranes his neck to press exactly three kisses down the side of the thigh. Licks up the scar on the left thigh (a knife cut, whatever the story Sean would come up with later).

Rubs his cheek against the silky length of Sean’s cock — and remembers too late about his stubble. But Sean shifts under him — not _away_ — so it must be okay. (The fingers return to the back of his head, clawing.)

Sean’s cock is long, sizable, but nothing Zach’s can’t handle; the head flushed and already wet. He peels the foreskin further back with his fingers and takes Sean into his mouth.

Sean goes so still.

Zach opens his eyes, looks up, frowning, what did he do wrong— But there is an answering frown on Sean’s face (those lines carved deep, there is a word, _intaglio_ , but they are fainter when Zach is around; he noticed). It’s not a _bad_ frown: Sean’s eyes are closed, and his wet lips are parted, and he’s so beautiful Zach has to swallow a lump in his throat.

He pulls off Sean’s cock and kisses along the silky length to the base, the white — colorless — hairs soft, and he moves lower, licking carefully the delicate skin over the balls then takes them into his mouth (lips curled to cover his teeth), and nails dig into the back of his head.

He returns his attention to Sean’s cock and closes his eyes and allows himself everything he’s wanted for so long, everything he’s imagined but denied himself.

He sucks lightly and lets the head rest in his mouth, then presses the tip of his tongue just under the head (Sean bucks, and he presses his palms into the strong thighs, hot to the touch). Then he moves down, keeping the tight pressure of his lips, and swallows, taking Sean into his throat.

The thighs flex under his palms.

It is so much: Sean, and his breathing the only sound, and the waves rippling through Sean, and his fingers pressing the rhythmic cipher of his pleasure into Zach’s skin, and Sean, Sean, _Sean_ …

Zach has to pull off for a moment when the hot whip of pleasure coils and releases in his lower abdomen and shoots up his spine, taking his breath away.

“Za—”

He swallows Sean again with a moan, unable to tell up and down, clinging to Sean as the world fades away into static.

A second wave whips through him when Sean spills onto his tongue.

He looks up, licking his lips, focusing, and if he hadn’t come by that point, the sight would have certainly undone him: Sean’s chest is flushed and gleaming with sweat, and rising and falling rapidly.

He pulls himself up on trembling arms and collapses onto the bed, mouthing a kiss to the hard beauty of Sean’s shoulder.

Sean turns to him, gentle hand on his cheek, blindly. Zach shivers, presses his face into it, turns to kiss, to lick the salt of sweat off.

“My boy, have you—”

“Yes,” he breathes out — moans out, rubbing forehead against Sean’s shoulder.

Shadow, he still wants. Desire heavy in his limbs, like molten metal, Sean’s field stoking it up, brilliant but not blinding. It’s humming around, in sync with his, content and warm.

Zach hasn’t even taken his clothes off.

“I’m sorry, Sean.”

“Don’t apologize.” Sean kisses his bottom lip, and Zach turns into it, too— no, he shouldn’t—

Sean licks into his mouth, tongue soft but parting his lips with insistence, and Zach moans into the kiss, a hand coming up to slide over Sean’s hot side, the glide helped by the sheen of sweat.

Sean chuckles — it’s not mockery, just a warm chuckle, a wonderful sound. Zach looks up, at Sean’s different-sized pupils, eyelids half-lowered — a picture of content. But their fields are tightening, twining together again.

“More?”

“Yes. My Master.”

Sean smiles — dangerous, full of promise.

“Then I shall be very, _very_ thorough, Zachariah.”


End file.
